Hum of a Heartbeat
by Crawling-through-ashes
Summary: A broken shadow. A buried past. A lesson written in bloodshed. Suddenly everything Bart Allen escaped from comes rushing back, but this time things will be different.
1. Chapter 1

The soil sighs under Bart's boots, dark and slick from the last rainfall. His mother loves rain. She says that it used to fall in clear drops that left a glistening sheen on the roads and pavement. Now the rain is dark and tainted like acid. It stings too, almost as much as the ashes and bitter sediment do when they drift from the sky to land on his face, clothes, any of his exposed flesh, really.

He crouches low to the ground as he meanders forwards. "Always travel at night," his father says, "under the safety of the moon." Yet he's learned from personal experience that the moon does little to provide guidance at night. Now, only thin, wobbly rays of moonlight peak through the ever-present cloud cover. Instead, he hugs the skeletons of buildings, hunks of dilapidated debris and ghosts of the proud skyscrapers and sturdy homes that once filled the earth.

Craning his head, Bart can just barely make out the shuffle of footsteps from up ahead. The inhibitor collar chafes his neck, but even without superspeed, he's still fast. He puts on a small burst of speed, so that he can make out a half a dozen silhouettes.

An audible _snap _resounds from beneath Bart's feet, either a loose twig or some brittle remnant of machinery. He gulps, silently praying that the group won't hear him. If they do, he'll be sent back home, but if he has to stay confined within those decrepit walls for much longer, he'll be the one who snaps. "Sheltered" is the word his parents use, but he knows the horrors of the world they live in. He's watched from afar as slaves collapse from exhaustion. He's heard them heave through corrupted lungs, watched their tired bodies bleed as their minds try to claw out of the empty shells their bodies have become. Sunken, lifeless husks, barely resembling anything human.

Bart doesn't want to become that. His parents tell him to put all of this on the back-burner. People with anxiety live in the future, people with depression live in the past, but his parents suffer from both, so where do they stand? Some distorted interval between the two that's not quite the present, and not quite the past, and certainly not the future. If there even is a future.

Bart has three more years before they come for him. He already has an active metagene, but the Reach may still find uses for him. If they don't, then he'll either be disposed of, or will get to return to a life of enslavement. Neither option piques his interest, but there are still worse fates, still more inhumane types of torture.

"We're almost there," a hushed voice from up ahead announces.

Bart's pulse skitters, and he can feel his heartbeat drumming in his temples. Rebellion is brewing, not strong enough to ever take down the Reach, but it's there if you squint.

He watches the group stop in front of a building, seemingly untouched by the hands of time. It has a faded cross on it, and with the dim lighting Bart can't make out the color. He slowly inches forwards, until he's only a foot-or-so away from the group. He counts the seconds in his head before one of them notices him.

"Hey kid," the man grunts out in a rough voice, "what're you doing 'ere?"

Bart shifts so that he's standing ever-so-slightly on his tiptoes, like a bird about to take flight. Even then he only reaches the shortest man's chest.

"Wait..." another man turns. "Bart? Is that you?"

"Hey, dad," he grins meekly.

"Don, why'd ya bring yer kid? We're not here ta babysit," he adds in an abrasive whisper.

"I-I didn't. Bart, does your mother know you left?"

Bart meets his father's eyes unabashedly. He's never been good at lying; you can see it in his eyes as clear as day if he's being truthful or not. "No," he whispers laconically, not an ounce of regret in his voice. Don's shoulders slump forwards, as if his body is caving in on its self. "I came to help!" Bart adds hurriedly. "And I can help."

"Bart," Don admonishes tiredly. "What we're doing... it-it's dangerous. You could get hurt. And you're my responsibility."

Bart's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly and he raises his head defiantly. "I'm not a liability."

The rest of the group, three other men, and two women, watch the relay between father and son. Finally, Don relents. "Fine. But just this once. You're still a kid Bart. You have the right to live a little before... before they..." Don clears his throat. "We're here to collect medication. This medical site has been abandoned for decades, but even dog anesthetic can be useful to humans. Don't touch any needles, and if you find anything useful, call one of us. We know how to check if it's still potent."

Bart nods, a thin smile gracing his features. He follows the rest of the group inside. The inside of the building is white and reeks of sterile chemicals. Adrenaline courses through his veins as an eager sort of satisfaction settles on his chest. It feels right, being in the middle of the action. Like helping others isn't just in his blood; it's his sole purpose.

There's another feeling that he can't quite shake, as if the sterile smell is only there to mask the odour of death. Shaking off his sense of foreboding, Bart traipses towards a cupboard. A rusted lock keeps it trapped shut, but it's probably a sign that there's something of value being locked away. Still, he's not really sure what to do. Should he call out? He doesn't know the names of anyone else here, and he'd feel childish shouting out, "dad". Bart bites down on the inside of his cheek, using the pain as a distraction. He's careful to not to bite down hard enough to draw blood, because he's done that before, and water doesn't do much to subdue the taste of blood.

Summoning up his courage Bart starts to call out, but the words end up sticking in his throat. A tumultuous blast fills the air, bits of the ceiling hurtle down. Bart just manages to lock eyes on his dad, before the blast sends him careening backwards. The scream is ripped from his throat, high and piercing, and totally involuntary.

A chorus of shouts pierce the air, and Bart stumbles to his feet, surging past the whorls of dust and smoke.

The explosion occurred on the other end of the hospital. The end where his dad...

Bart breaks into a frenetic run, desperation seeping into him. "Dad?" he cries plaintively, like a small child. He claws at the collapsed pile with desperate fingertips. His hands sting as he claws like a madman, skin turning raw and red.

"Kid," one of the men warns. A gentle palm settles on his shoulder. "Kid, stop, you're hurting yourself. Kid!"

Bart shrugs away from his touch, and resumes his mad rush to clear the debris.

"There ain't no way he survived 'at."

Bart leans forward, pressing his ear to the rubble. "Dad," he pleads, as loud as his voice will allow. "Dad, please answer me."

Silence. Bart strains to listen, to hear anything. And then he does. An almost inaudible hum. _Da-dit-da-dit-da-dit. _

"It's his heartbeat! I can hear it. He's alive." Bart turns to meet five incredulous pairs of eyes. "Come on! Help me! He's still breathing. Hurry!"

Six pairs of hands, including his own, work to move to clear the detritus. Bart's hand meets slick flesh, and someone else shines a flashlight over the injury. Bart's stomach heaves at the sheen of bone. _That is so moded. _His leg is almost torn in two. But he's still alive. Bart can hear the steady rhythm of Don Allen's heartbeat. He gropes blindly as more of the rubble is cleared. Finally, his hand lands on another limb; a wrist. A bloody, mangled wrist. He feels blindly.

"It's okay dad, we're going to get you—" Oh.

"What is it?" it's a woman's voice this time, Bart recognizes the soft sound of it.

He frees the object from his father's wrist and holds it up lamely. "Its his watch," Bart's voice isn't supposed to sound like this. It's too rough, too hollow to be his. "I heard the ticking. I thought it was his heartbeat." He feels tears prick at his eyes, but they don't fall. Crying takes up too much energy, and he's too numb to feel sad.

"Oh. You okay kid?" He can't even recognize the distinction between a man's voice or a woman's now. It's all just white noise. But he can't cry, for aforementioned reasons, so instead he smiles.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." He doesn't elaborate, but he speaks with conviction. Lying isn't nearly as hard as he thought.

* * *

Bart awakes with a gasp. A part of him wonders if it's normal to fall asleep calm and relaxed, and to wake up in a cold-sweat? One thing that should never be underestimated is the power of his subconscious. But what brought on such sharp memories? He's been in the past for a while now, and he sure as hell hadn't been picking at any scabs. Why do his thoughts have to bleed into his dreams? And to bleed such a dark colour?

With trembling fingers Bart attempts to extricate himself from his blankets, but somehow manages to only get more tangled. The covers were so tight... too tight... and it was getting very, very hard to breathe. And suddenly they weren't blankets enveloping him, but chunks of debris. He feels his bones snapping, the life draining out of him. _Should've been you, should've been you. _He wants to cry out for Jay or Joan, he wants to scream for help, but he can't. All he can see are a pair of wide-set eyes. It occurs to him for the first time, that his eyes were the last thing his father saw.

Oh God. _OhGodohGodohGod._ He repeats those two simple words until his brain no longer recognizes them. The mattress creaks under his weight as he twists and writhes and claws at the debris. He has to clear an exit or it'll suffocate him. He doesn't want to die again. But maybe he was never really alive.

He gasps for breath, but a hunk of debris must have settled on his chest, because suddenly it's too hard to breathe. His hands scratch at his own skin, searching for a way out. _Vibrate through it, _his mind chastises his stupidity. Bart does vibrate through it, escaping the blankets, before zooming down the stairs and through the front door.

The burst of night air would normally be refreshing, but the moon is obscured by thick, dark storm clouds th undulate across the night sky. It's like he's reliving that same day. Except this time it won't be his father that dies.


	2. Chapter 2

After the 'incident', Bart had hoped that he could slip back into bed, and pretend to be just as shocked at the news of Don Allen's death as his mother. Unfortunately, she had already noticed his absence.

"Bartholomew Henry Allen." Her voice was even and level, and far scarier than if she'd been yelling. Her amber flecked eyes were narrowed sharply.

Somehow he found that he didn't really care. His face a taut mask of pain, Bart slipped forwards to wrap his arms around his mother's waist. She was warm and soft and smelled the way mother's do, like rain in the summer or the first blossoms of spring. She made a noise of surprise in the back of her throat, before reciprocating the hug.

"Bart, what were you thinking? If something had happened-"

"Excuse me?" a second feminine voice cut through Bart's thoughts. "Mrs. Allen? Er, Meloni, was it?"

Bart's mom nods slowly.

"I'm here about your husband. There was an explosion."

Meloni's eyes, frozen with horror, dart from the stranger at the door to her son. Swallowing painfully, Bart lifts up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a golden watch stained with dried blood. The reaction is instantaneous.

"Oh my god," she clasps her hands to her lips, her body convulsing with sobs. "Oh, God." She wails, the sound barely passing as human.

_He's dead,_ Bart thinks. _He's dead, he's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead. _He repeats the words until the meaning is unhinged from his brain. _He's dead, he's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead._

The woman at the door, one of the six from the nighttime escapade, observes Bart's reaction curiously. This is the world they live in. Death is not unexpected, and certainly not a surprise. But where there is death there is also heartbreak, proof that no matter what the Reach take from them, they can always fall lower. Bart doesn't cry though, and maybe that's why the woman has a bemused expression on her face. He could point out that he is young, he doesn't understand death yet. But that would be a lie, and Bart's only just starting to become familiar with them.

Finally, Meloni's breathing steadies ever-so-slightly; just enough for her to gasp out, "we need to tell Iris. And your aunt Dawn."

Bart nods slowly, even though his mom can't see him, not when her head is resting between her knees and her vision is blurred by tears. "I'll tell-" he starts to say, but she cuts him off.

"No, no. I will."

Their house is a two-story building, with loose floorboards, bent shutters, and cracked mortar. They are the richest of the rich to have even this. Bart's aunt and grandmother live with them, and between them and his parents... parent... they're able to provide enough to survive. Little can grow with the state the world is in, and all the food comes from the Reach. It's unnatural and processed, but Don would always joke about how silly people were to act like chemicals in their food was a new thing. Still, Bart is shaking, and the woman hasn't left yet, and now she's telling him to eat something, to help his blood sugar, or something. So he eats a bit of processed food, but it's flavorless and tastes vaguely like cardboard. His stomach roils with nausea, so he doesn't try to stomach the 'food'. It just sits in his mouth, half-chewed.

He sits for a while, thinking that he and the food in his mouth have a lot in common. It's a strange analogy, but here he is, chewed up and spit out by life. Finally the woman leaves. She was nice, with a crooked smile. He decides to refer to her as the 'crooked woman'. Except, maybe that title doesn't really do her justice.

A sob reverberates through the house, and Bart finds himself upstairs. He presses his ear to the door. His mother is the one talking. Or, sobbing, really. He doesn't know which, though he's not really in the mood to nitpick.

"Don's gone, and they're going to take Bart from me too, and I won't," she inhales sharply, "I won't be a mom anymore."

Somehow, that comment hits Bart harder than the explosion did, and it threw him a good few feet backwards. The pain is suddenly so loud, so raw, unfurling like dried paint on the walls, and he can't stay here. So he runs. That is the best form of escape, after all. Little did he know, that this time he was running _towards_ something, and not just away.

* * *

Bart sees her face ingrained on the back of his eyelids. It's there every time he closes his eyes, a stain that won't come out. Her face glistens with tears, shining raw with the knowledge that her whole world is crashing down around her. It's a scary piece of knowledge to come to terms with: that everything until this moment is no longer relevant. That's the thing about pain though; you should never, ever try to forget it, because if you do, then who is there left to remember?

The future hasn't happened yet, and now it never will. Not the same way. The life Bart lived is just a whisper of what could be. That's not the problem. The problem is that Bart remembers and he doesn't exactly want to forget per se, doesn't want to run away, but he also wants to have something to run towards. Maybe if-

"-Bart?"

He doesn't startle at the voice. He knew he would come. He always does.

"Bart, are you okay?"

He doesn't answer; not because he doesn't want to answer, but because he doesn't have an answer.

"Bart," the voice is tentative, "Mr. Garrick called me earlier. He was really worried. They found bloodstains on your sheets. We've been looking for you for the past few days."

"What is that, Jaime?" Bart already knew the answer, of course. He'd been watching it for a while. A few days, he supposed. He wasn't sure. Time was different when you were a speedster; you could take a single moment and slow it down, or speed it up.

"That's a children's hospital."

"It was my fault, Jaime." He waits patiently for a response. It takes Jaime a few minutes to find his voice.

"What was your fault?"

"If I hadn't insisted on helping, he would've taken me back home. He wouldn't have been there. I killed him, Jaime. I killed him."

"Bart, I, uh, I don't understand what you're saying, but Scarab says you're displaying symptoms of a panic-attack."

"It should've been me. I wish it was."

Only now did he turn back to face Jaime. He slowed the moment down, the moment was fleeting, but lasted an eternity. He saw Jaime's eyes, molten pools of dark chocolate, saw the concern and worry etched upon it. Jaime's nose crinkled slightly when he was worried. It almost made Bart want to see him worried more often. It still didn't beat Jaime's smile, though.

"I have to go," Bart whispers, but by the time his words reach Jaime's ears, he is already long gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Bart runs until the air tastes like morning, until the ground beneath his feet is unfamiliar. Tilled soil, loose rocks, the occasional bone; though whether human, or animal, he doesn't know. Yesterday, he would have told himself that the frequent snapping underfoot was from a loose twig, or some brittle remnant of machinery. Now, though, he decides not to remain rooted in his ignorance. He's stepping on human skeletons. Piles of bones that are all there is left of the people gunned down or murdered by the Reach. There's no one there to remember them; no one there to hold a burial, no one to write an obituary, to mourn them, to show they made a difference in life. Just bones.

Bart's feet eat the miles as fast as possible, and it feels good to run, to put as much distance between himself and his problems as possible. But trouble is good at pursuing, and soon a yelp is ripped from his throat. The ground beneath his feet gives away. He feels the briefest sensation that he's free-falling, before his body makes contact with the ground. Pain flares up his ankle, and he twists to get a good look at his surroundings. It's dark. And not _there's-an-ever-present-smog-cover_ dark, but pitch-black dark.

Groaning, he calls out, "Is anyone there?" His inquiry is met with silence, and the knowledge that he's stuck underground is beginning to sink in. Worse yet, no one knows where he is. He sits in silence for a few minutes, the darkness warping into spirals of anxiety. "I'm so moded," he groans through his teeth. His voice is a distraction, he focuses on how his tongue moves as he speaks, how he's able to maintain a somewhat calm voice. Is he good enough at lying to convince himself that it's alright? No, no he's not. "This is so moded."

"Moded?" a second voice asks. "Where'd a kid like you learn that term?"

Bart startles at the voice. It's gravelly in the way that an old man's voice is. He blinks at the sudden flicker of light. A candle. "I... who...?"

"I'm Nathaniel."

"What," Bart asks, because his mouth tends to run ahead of his thoughts, "no last name?"

The flickering candlelight casts patterns across the man's weathered face. He's bald and wrinkled, and his eyes look sunken, as if he's just barely clinging to life.

"I do have a last name. I just don't give it out to every person I run into." He taps his head. "Smart that way." Bart can't tell if he's joking or not. "What about you, you have a name?"

"Bart Allen." Bart says proudly. There's no point in hiding his identity; he's proud of his family, of his name. A flicker of recognition flashes across Nathaniel's face, but the look is gone as quick as it came. Bart's fairly certain he didn't imagine it, though. His parent's taught him how to read people. If their face twitches, they're lying. If they smile easily, it's usually fake. There's little cause to smile nowadays. He's good at recognizing nervous habits too; simply because he's had his fair share of anxiety attacks.

"So," Nathaniel asks, "you going to answer my question?"

"What?" Bart blinks.

"How did you pick up the term 'moded'? That's Reach slang, you know. You're not a spy for one of them, are you?"

Bart doesn't miss the teasing jest in Nathaniel's voice. He frowns a bit. "Crash, mode, they're pretty common terms." This is the Reach's world now, so it's not a downright lie. Bart doesn't add that the first time he heard those words was when the Reach soldiers were fastening an inhibitor collar around his neck to repress his superspeed.

"How old are you?" Nathaniel asks.

Bart repeats the question back to him, his bottle green eyes narrowed into a look of distrust. He half expects Nathaniel to respond with, "that's rude to ask an adult", or something, but the man simply sighs. It's a weary sigh, a long, tired expel of air, as if his lungs are no longer functioning properly.

"Too old," Nathaniel says simply, "too old, too fast."

"Right." Bart's frown deepens slightly. Warning bells are going off in his brain. This man, Nathaniel whatever-his-last-name-is, has a look in his gaze. It's the look of someone who's been cheated from life. A part of Bart wants to comfort him, but a larger part wants to run away. He doesn't need to witness anymore heartbreak.

"Hey, uh, kid—"

"—Bart."

"Right. Bart. How old are you?"

"Ten." Well, just about.

Nathaniel's face softens into a look of pity. "Ten. That's three more years until they come for you. I was eighteen when they made me... Look, I'm going to offer you a deal. You have three more years, and that's three years that could be spent towards helping me with something. Come with me."

Bart's ankle throbs, and pain shoots up his body, right to his nerve endings. He doesn't voice his discomfort, and instead follows Nathaniel. He doesn't really have much of a choice; without Nathaniel, he's stuck underground with no light and no way of getting out. And the man seems to know what he's doing.

"Where are we going? What is this place? And how do you know..." Nathaniel shoots him a look, and Bart's voice wavers. The next ten minutes are spent in silence. Bart knows it's ten minutes, because he checks his father's watch periodically. It offers a faint bit of light, but the numbers are still difficult to discern.

"We're in the catacombs," Nathaniel says, finally. "Underground tunnels that were build by a team of metahumans in a last ditch effort against the Reach. They used it to sneak into Blue Beetle's base."

"What happened?"

Nathaniel gives a throaty, strangled laugh, that almost sounds as if he's in pain. "Well, it's obvious, isn't it? They died. Didn't stand a chance. Superboy was the worst. Almost invulnerable. Not too difficult to subdue, but very difficult to kill. When he did die... well, I'm sure it was a relief for him."

"Superboy?" Bart whips his head up, his tone momentarily brightening. He's heard that name before. His parent's have mentioned Superboy on one or two occasions. "As in, Conner Kent? And Robin? Beast Boy? Wondergirl? Nightwing?"

"You sure know you're superheroes. You'd fit right in at Comic Con."

"What's that?"

"Some event where people dress up in costumes of heroes. I don't know. I mean, I did know... I guess I just kind of forgot."

Swallowing, Bart looks at Nathaniel with a renewed sense of hope. "If you know all this, then you must be one of the heroes too."

Nathaniel shuffles awkwardly, and averts his gaze. "Well, we're here." The tunnel has opened up into a quaint sized room with a reinforced ceiling. A rectangular table takes up most of the space, and on it are haphazardly stacked bits of machine parts and incongruent towers of papers and books. The papers have random squiggles and jotnotes; the writing of a mad-man. Bart can tell from the worn, tattered couch that this is Nathaniel's permanent residence, but it seems more like a private hell than a home.

"What is all this?" Bart asks, examining the cover of a physics text.

"My life's work. I'm building a time machine."

* * *

Neut lives in a nice house, or at least, that's what Bart thinks. It has orchid shutters and a grey tiled roof, and a thin vegetable garden out front. Bart's not supposed to know the address, and he's not supposed to visit. After the Reach threat ended, Nathaniel Tryon returned to his foster family. Though technically, if he wanted, he could move out. Neut's eighteen now, a legal adult. Bart understands why he wants to stay with his family. It's nice having one. Having people who love you, who'll look out for you. Bart also thinks that there's maybe a part of Nathaniel that remembers the cold, desolate future that he spent living underground in isolation as his past sins dirtied his hands. That future never happened, of course. The timeline has been changed, altered, and Nathaniel never killed the Flash. He never spent his life as a servant of the Reach. Heck, in this lifetime, he might even be lucky enough to one day start a family of his own.

Bart's not supposed to be here, and he knows that. He's barely fourteen, and Neut is eighteen. He wouldn't want to hang around with a teenage kid he doesn't even remember. Bart remembers, though, and that's the problem. He remembers how Neut became like a second father to him. He says _like _because some days he hated Nathaniel. Hated how Nathaniel wouldn't confide in him, hated how Nathaniel was the one who killed his grandfather, hated how Nathaniel made Bart d some of the dirty work to get the parts for the time machine. But he'll also never forget how Nathaniel helped him. Howe he gave him hope, and a purpose. Bart wishes he had the chance to tell Nathaniel that.

He's not supposed to talk to him. Neut completed his training at STAR Labs, and has put mentions of the Reach and the League behind him. Bart's not supposed to get involved, or compromise the agreement that Nathaniel is allowed to live in peace. But some days, Bart thinks about how Jaime has Tye, how Tye is Jaime's best friend, and that besides Jaime and his biological family, Bart doesn't really have anyone. He's sociable, quick-witted, making friends should be easy, it is easy, but the effort it calls for just doesn't appeal to Bart like it once did.

Now, he stands across the street from Nathaniel Tryon, Nate, Neutron, Neut, his friend and ally, and how at least one life was fully repaired after the timeline was fixed. Bart knows it's kind of selfish, but he can't help wishing that his life would be a little more like that too.


	4. Chapter 4

It's strange how easily Bart gets used to waking up at dawn, used to seeing only a faint rosy glow bleed into the still dark sky. Strange how soon it becomes habit for him to slip into a pair of makeshift shoes, to slink out of the house, and to simply run. He's moves quietly, but he knows he's not fooling either his mom or grandmother. They know he's gone, that he'll be back later, acting as if he never left. Still, they don't question him. Two years and nine months before the Reach take him. Something about how metagenes are easier to draw out and tamper with once the earth 'meat' has reached adolescence. He doesn't quite understand it, especially since he's pretty sure that the Reach have growth hormones, or something. Still, maybe it's better if he doesn't focus on the details. Put it all on the backburner, for now. No use worrying about something that's still yet to pass. Heck, there could be a rebellion that overthrows the Reach within the next year, and then all of the energy Bart's put towards panic-attacks will have been for nothing. He gives a wry laugh at the thought, and continues running.

It's strange, or at least surprising, how quickly Bart's learned to navigate through the catacombs. But then, routine is something everyone settles into. It's comforting, this extra purpose Bart has now, and it takes the edge off of his grief and anxiety. He can't say he's really grieving over his father's death. Grief means being numb, and lost, but Bart's not either of those things, as long as he keeps busy. And it's not like it was a huge shock when Don Allen was killed. Well, it was, because it was sudden, and an accident, but this is the apocalypse, and after awhile, you get used to encroaching death and torture.

"Took you long enough," a gruff voice mutters.

Is that thinly disguised concern, or simply irritation? Bart's not sure, so he doesn't bother with a proper response. "Did you get the parts, Neut?"

"Of course," Nathaniel deadpans, turning to face the speedster. His eyes look sunken and tired, but not so tired that they don't retain their sardonic glint. "And don't call me that."

"Right," Bart shuffles closer to the table, eyeing the mounds of machinery, most of which have been reduced to little more than scraps. "You sure these will work?"

Nathaniel's scowl deepens. He picks up a jagged scrap of metal with a careful hand, and holds it in front of an oil lamp. At the right angle, the material seems to shimmer. "It's Reach tech. More advanced than anything here." He places it back in its respective pile, and returns to a worn leather journal. Probably trying to discern his own writing. Chicken-scrawl is the word Iris would use.

"So... what can I do?"

"Go read a book," Neut suggests helpfully.

Bart enjoys reading. He likes the feel of old paper, coupled with the musty smell that can only be associated with knowledge. Still, Nathaniel doesn't have a particularly interesting selection. "I've already read all your physics books."

"Storage box, left corner of the room," Nathaniel gestures in an offhand manner.

There's a stack of boxes piled precariously, so Bart, naturally, decides on the bottom box. The two stacked on top fall unceremoniously as he begins to rummage through it. There aren't any books inside. There are folded pieces of paper with print and faded photos, though. Newspaper clippings. Bart checks the date. May 17, 2016. The photo features an armored, winged teenager, hurtling towards the earth. His face is set with a look of grim determination, even as he falls. It's fascinating, how that expression is frozen in time by the photograph. Beneath him, Gothic steeples stand, as if preparing to impale him like a fallen angel. He's not a fallen angel, though. Falling, but not fallen.

"Hey, kid?"

Bart blinks up at Nathaniel, his nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm.

"You okay?"

Bart's not sure when he started shaking, or why. The photo just seems so wrong, capturing a moment of sheer bravery. The people below have their faces frozen in an "o" of terror, silently rooting for their hero. Bart wants to hate him, but he doesn't see anything particularly worth hating. "He looks different."

"Before the Reach tampered with me, I looked different too. Wasn't bald, for one."

"I didn't think he'd look like that."

Nathaniel nods silently, before slipping the newspaper from Bart's grasp, and tossing it aside. He pulls out another one, from a later date.

The armor on the teen's face has receded, revealing a light brown face, warm eyes, and what looks like a genuine smile. The only thing indicating that it's a façade is the lack of smile lines around his eyes. Most people's eyes crinkle when they smile. Bart somehow knows that it's fake. The headline reads: Blue Beetle: Hero of Earth.

"What do you see?"

"Blue Beetle."

"Really?" Nathaniel sounds mildly surprised. "I don't. I see a puppet," he pauses to stand, carefully fitting the lid back on the box. "And every puppet has a puppeteer."

Bart watches his hands clench and unclench for a moment. He feels kind of sick. Blue Beetle had almost looked... innocent. Nathaniel clears his throat, a low rumbling sound, that reminds Bart how old the man really is.

"You should get going. We got enough done for today."

Bart's eyebrows raise a notch. They didn't get _anything_ done today. They haven't even reached the stage of actually building the time machine. At the rate they're going, he's not sure they ever will.

"We didn't get anything done," Bart mumbles. "I didn't do anything."

"That's how it should be," Nathaniel sighs, "kids not doing anything. I remember when adults used to complain about it. Funny how much we'd give to go back to that. Kids shouldn't be doing anything. They should be able to breathe without this ," he gestures vaguely, as if to encompass everything around them, "hanging over their heads."

"Right. Well, it's been crash."

"Hey, kid?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you trust me?"

Bart's surprised by the simplicity of the question. Then he realizes that the answer is where the complexity lies. He bites his lip, because he has a feeling that he's going to be judged on his answer. He's been visiting Nathaniel for just over a month. They've shared food, secrets, stories. Yet the only answer he can speak without it being a partial lie is, "No."

Nathaniel smiles to himself, nodding, as if that was the answer he wanted. "That's good. Don't trust anyone, and you might actually stand a chance. But just because you can't trust someone, doesn't mean you can trust them with certain things."

That sounds like the kind of cryptic advice Bart's mom would give. He hates it when adults do that.

"I take it I can trust you with this?" Bart blinks, snapping to attention. In Nathaniel's hand is an inhibitor collar, and around his neck, where it's supposed to be, is nothing. Nothing save for a deep red indentation from where the collar's rested. The flesh looks raw, and painful. Bart's hand darts absentmindedly to his own neck. "See what I did?"

He took the collar off. But not just that. The red light is still on. "You disabled it."

"I can disable yours, too."

Bart stares, drinking in Nathaniel's words hungrily. He ponders what would happen if his collar was disabled, and everything that would entail.

"If I do, you can't ever tell anyone. Or take it off. It needs to stay on, so people will think it's still functioning."

Bart nods, because that's just about all he's able to do. He sees words start to form on Nathaniel's lips, but he's gone before they're spoken. Gone, in a euphoric rush of adrenaline, because for the first time, he finally feels free.

* * *

It's strange how quickly Bart got used to waking up to warm, cottony sheets entwined with his body, to dappled sunlight filtering in through the blinds. It's strange how soon it becomes habit for smells of pancakes or waffles to waft towards his bedroom. Bart is glad that the Garricks were willing to take him in. Joan is used to dealing with speedsters, so Bart's appetite comes as no surprise to her. One time, Bart overheard Barry inquiring about whether Jay and Joan could handle Bart. They laughed and brushed him off, saying that Bart made them feel younger. Kind of ironic, given that Nathaniel used to comment on how much older he felt with Bart around.

It's strange, or at least surprising, how quickly Bart feels at home in Central City. He begins recognizing street signs and walkways, little fixtures that make him feel at ease. Bart's good at navigating social interactions, too. He's a speedster, he's quick about noticing things. That doesn't quell his anxiety for tonight, though. Family dinners are usually a breeze. What's more crash than getting to eat, after all? Still, it wasn't even a week ago that he ran away. He didn't know what to do. He had a dream about his dad, and it was so vivid, as if he were reliving the night he died. So he ran. Running helps. But eventually he went back to the Garricks. Things still seem more tense than usual. For one thing, the Garricks are treating him like a five year old. Joan is out visiting a friend, and they didn't trust him to be at home alone, so, here he is, waiting patiently outside the liquor store as Jay buys a bottle for tonight. Bart thinks the gesture is pointless; given that speedsters kind of can't get intoxicated. Well, theoretically, it's possible, but it would require _a lot_ of alcohol.

Bart taps his foot in an arrhythmic pattern as he watches a woman lurch a ways away. Morning binge drinking. Bart doesn't know how anyone could find the out-of-control feeling of being drunk at all appealing. The woman also seems totally unaware that she's wearing vomit on her shirt.

"Doesn't look too fun, does it?" Jay asks, a bottle with an amber liquid tucked under his arm.

Bart makes a noise of affirmation. "Looks like she's feeling the mode."

Jay chuckles the way people do whenever Bart uses future lingo. He doesn't see how "crash" and "mode" are at all strange terms, compared to todays usage of "selfie" and "sweg". Finally, Jay shakes his head, and they walk back to the house. "There are worse ways of coping," he says, finally.

Bart nods, because he agrees. There are worse ways to deal. But then, alcohol and drugs aren't really the problem. They're just a lousy solution to an even bigger problem. It's strange because the past is supposed to be when the world was good, the world had heroes, people had hope. In some ways, this timeline is just as moded as the one Bart was born into.


End file.
